


Peace After Death

by glacis



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interlude between battles brings a measure of peace to two weary souls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace After Death

Peace After Death, a Lord of the Rings: Two Towers interlude for MG, with dearest affection  and sincere appreciation.

They had been running for days.  Fleet of foot he was, but worry weighed  heavily on the spirit.   As spirit and body were entwined, so then the exhaustion of the  soul dragged at the body.  Legolas caught a scent on the wind, and felt the burden increase.

Death.

Fire.

Blood and ashes.

He shook off the sadness at the waste, to be dealt with when and if needed, and glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, toiling up the hill in their wake.  Aragorn knelt some ways ahead of them both, head to the ground, listening for sounds of the Orc band they pursued.

Would that they would not be too late.

Then Aragorn was beside him.  The horde of riders Legolas had spied a short while before was nearly upon them.  Ducking behind shelter until the thundering host was before them, Aragorn stepped forth.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?" he called.

In an instant, as if commanded by the same hand, the steeds wheeled and circled them.   Legolas' fingers curved around his bow, his eyes steady on the armored men and horses  now ringing them in.  A thicket of spears made an impassible barricade around the three,  who stood now back to back.

One rode forward, the tall leader Legolas had seen when first he'd spotted the riders.  His  spear-tip stopped within a foot of Aragorn's chest.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?"  His manner of speech and air of  command echoed uncannily of Boromir to Legolas.

"I am called Strider," Aragorn responded.  "I came out of the North.  I am hunting Orcs."

Legolas watched the Captain of the guard closely as Aragorn spoke for the remnants of  the Fellowship.  The words were cautious, and Legolas approved.  Hard blue eyes swept  over him, from the shadow of the crested helm, then moved on to Gimli, then returned to  Aragorn.

"The plains of Rohan are awash with spies in these dark days.  Who are your silent companions?"

From the corner of his eye Legolas saw Gimli bristle at the harsh challenge, squaring his stance  and bringing his great war axe to the ready.  "Give me your name, horse-master," he growled  with his natural bellicosity in the face of threat, "and I will give you mine.  And more besides!"

Glare ablaze, the Captain answered in kind.  "I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master  Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground!"

The bow leapt to Legolas' hand, arrow nocked, before the words cleared the Man's lips, his  movement faster than mortal eye could follow.  Steady as the death his weapon promised,  Legolas replied, "He stands not alone.  You would die before your stroke fell."

Aragorn sprang forth between arrow, spear and axe, his hands upraised.  "Enough!"   Murmuring words of restraint in the Elven tongue, he gave Legolas a warning glance.  Legolas  heard but did not yet lower his bow.  Turning to the Captain, Aragorn continued, "We intend  no harm to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse.  Will you not hear our tale  before you strike?"

The fire banked but was not quenched in the horseman's eyes.  In response to Aragorn's plea,  heeding his leader's command, Legolas allowed his guard to drop, as he returned his bow to  its place across his back.  The Captain dismounted, handing his spear to the warrior by his  side, and removed his helm.  His wild flaxen hair and fierce expression matched the strength  of his gaze.

"I will.  But wanderers in the Riddermark would be wise to be less haughty in these troubled  times," the Captain told Aragorn.  His gaze dwelt long on Legolas before he turned again to  the Man.  "First tell me your right name."

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.  My companions are Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli, son  of Gloin."

"I am Eomer, son of Eomund, and am called the Third Marshall of Riddermark.  Though the  shadows fall deep on the land of King Théoden, and those who would serve are banished  from his court."

Aragorn nodded thanks for the courtesy returned.  Legolas watched him ponder the meaning  buried in that last phrase for a moment before putting it aside to consider when time was less  of an essence.  Aragorn continued his tale.  "We are pursuing an Orc-host that carried off our  friends."

The bodies of men and horses quivered in response to the words, hatred and anger near-spent  by action but still and always present within their hearts.  The Captain spoke again.

"Then you need not pursue them further.  The Orc are destroyed."

"And our friends?  They are Hobbits, and would be small, only children to your eyes," Aragorn  asked, though Legolas heard more desperation than hope in his voice.

The long white crest on the Captain's helmet swung softly in the breeze as he shook his head.   "All in the camp were slain and the bodies burned."

Legolas felt a clenching in his chest.  A wild soft sound of mourning came from Gimli's throat.   Aragorn's proud head bowed and his fists tightened.  To have come so far, and for naught.   Failure hung heavy on Legolas' spirit.  Sensing the Captain's gaze on him again he looked  up as the Man summoned two riderless horses.

"Brego!  Hasufel!  May they share a fairer fate with you than their previous riders."  Eomer  presented the horses to the three, a small recompense for his part in the death of the Hobbits.  As time and events would tell, the price was early paid and the reason untrue, but the horses  did indeed fare better than their erstwhile riders.

That initial confrontation stayed in the quiet undercurrents of Legolas' thoughts through the  days that followed.  There was little time for introspection as events swept them along, but  in moments of watch when the Men around him slept, at Helm's Deep waiting for the night  to come, a memory of eyes the color of evening sky searing through him would come to him,  and he would wonder.

Then Haldir of Lothlorien brought his Legion to ally with the Rohirrim; the rain began; the Orc- hordes arrived to join with them in battle; and doomed fate was upon them all.

 

He had been right to despair, though not for himself.  Legolas surveyed the  survivors of the Galadhrim gathering their dead.  The bodies would be removed to the depths  of the wild forest, to return to the earth the matter that was of no substance with the spirit  sundered.  Two he recognized led several he did not, as Rumil and Orophin gathered the  shell that had been their brother and took him far from the rock-hewn fortress, away from the sight of men.

Haldir would be greatly missed, by kith and kin, as witnessed by the tears tracing Aragorn's  bearded cheek, streaking a path clean through the gore of battle still smearing his skin.   Songs rose as the Elves worked, weaving a sibilant dirge through the rougher, more broken  song of the Rohirrim, singing their own dead to the halls of their fathers.  The very air in  Legolas' lungs burned with grief; the ground beneath his feet wept with it; the rocks echoed  of it.




It threatened to crush him.

He swept the scene with a weary eye, noting Gimli by Aragorn's side, the Elves at their death  duties, the men at theirs, the women keening their losses, the empty eyes of the children.  His  spirit expanded within him until the weight of it ate at his bones, and he knew it was time to  retreat and regroup.

Clasping bow in hand and training his sight on the distance, he spied the faintest of trails in the  sparse grass leading into the tree line.  Leaving the others to their grim duties, Legolas made  for the trail, for a few stolen hours in the trees, accompanied by the quiet wail of the wind and,  were he so fortunate, some small measure of elusive peace.

The forest grew thicker as he walked, muffling the distant cries until the only sounds that came  to his ears were the murmurs of the trees one to another.  The wind calmed from a buffet against  his spirit to a whisper, and Legolas felt his mind clear as the miles grew between himself and the carnage of Helm's Deep.  The ground evened as he went, until he found himself walking along the  length of a canyon, the ground gentle beneath his feet and the sun warm upon his back.  Eventually  he came upon a small cold trickle of water, as if the rocks themselves gave up their tears to help him loosen the hold he had upon his grief.

So much death was out of place in such surroundings, drenched as they were in life.  For a  time before he must return to face his friends again, he could forget the lines of anger and pain  carved into Aragorn's face, the spare trace of tear tracks on his cheek as he watched Haldir's  brothers at their sad task.  Legolas could forget for a moment the desolation in Gimli's eyes as  he stared out over the sea of corpses, as he clumsily patted the shoulder of a boy no taller than  the Dwarf himself, as the child stared sightless at the body of his slaughtered father.

The future held little for these troubled times but more suffering, and Legolas would grasp what  reprieve possible as the opportunity presented itself.  Loose pebbles beneath his feet brought  his attention back to his surroundings, and he spied a vertical rock face topped by a platform,  suspended as if tossed there by a careless giant's hand.  The whimsy of the pattern, honed  by wind and rain over thousands of years, caught his fancy, and he swiftly climbed the makeshift  stone steps to the top.

Once he attained the height of the stone sculpture he smiled.  A natural basin had formed,  where the water from the meandering stream gathered into a pool, neither too large nor too  shallow, but perfect for a battle-weary Elf to bathe.  It was surrounded by rocky exposed granite  and grassy patches, earthy artwork of slate gray, dark green and light.  At the far end of the  platform past the pool was a second rise, nearly three times Legolas' height, terminating in  a curved edge.  The smile on his lips grew as he lightly walked the length of the platform and  sprang up the rise.

It was as he suspected.  The edge of the outcropping was shaped like a giant bow, and the  trickle of water widened across the breadth of the lip, forming a curtain of sparkling water at  the back of the pool.  Above the fall spread a meadow, with tall grasses blowing in the wind,  from which he could turn and see the entirety of the valley below him.  But first, there was the  waterfall itself.

Without a second's thought, Legolas stripped from his leather armor and blood-stained  clothing, shaking his hair free from his braids as he stepped from his boots.  In a moment  he stood bare beneath the sun, and a moment later, stepped beneath the waterfall.

The first sluice of water over his skin felt like the kiss of a fresh dawn, washing away the  stench of death that lingered too strongly to be lifted away by the wind.  The spray was cold  but not bone-chilling, and was invigorating after the long rain-drenched mud-soaked night.   He stayed for some time, caught in the muted roar of water over stone echoed by the patter  of water over skin, watching the rays of sun break into jewels of light reflected through the  falling water. 

It was not until he finally stepped from the cushion of sound and sight that he realized he was  not alone.

At first glance, looking up from the slaughtered Orcs littering the acres around  Helm's Deep, Eomer did not recognize his king.  Gone was the weak, weary old man, his mind  and soul twisted by the foul Wormtongue at the behest of his dark wizard master.  In his place  was the golden King he had served faithfully, though that proud visage was now marked with  the tragedies that had so harshly befallen his people.

Forgiveness was granted without asking, by a touch to the shoulder and a warrior's embrace.   The past was put to rest, and the uncertain future would wait.  For the now, there were the dead  to bury and the wounded to succor, a watch to be made and a breath to be taken before  planning the next offensive.

The morning passed swiftly, yet not swiftly enough, at these onerous tasks.  His heart was  burdened by the death he saw, not only in warriors trained up to such risk but in men long  past an age when such sacrifice should be required, and boys not near old enough to give  their lifeblood.  Men, boys, Elves, and horses littered the grounds surrounding and throughout  the sundered stronghold.

Of his hundred and five riders, near a third were lost to the sea of Orcs they had found at their  arrival that dawn.  More horses than men were lost, though both were sorely missed.  Eomer  shared time and words with each of his wounded men, praising their deeds in battle and  giving them courage in the face of oft-grievous wounds.

Having seen to the living, he then turned to the dead, ensuring that the bodies of his men  were recovered and removed with dignity, and the corpses of the hated enemy burned.  As  he moved among the corpses he glimpsed many an Elf, gold armor battered and stained  with blood, wide eyes empty and elegant limbs graceless in death.  Bile rose in his throat  at the waste, of both Men and Elves, and his hatred for the Orc hordes rose to levels it had  not attained since his father had been slain when Eomer himself was but a boy.

As he completed his rounds, he was stopped by a strange solemn sight.  A phalanx of Elves,  carrying out their dead, passed in rank, gleaming in the sunlight, as if a brush of gold had  been laid across the dark field.  At the head of the column an honor guard of two carried  between them the body of the Captain of the Elven archers.  His armor, pierced and rent  as it was, yet glowed; his hair was bound in braids and his face reflected the peaceful calm  of death.  Eomer felt his heart shudder in his chest as he watched the silent procession  march away into the trees.

It was enough.  His duties done, he had an afternoon to rest before gathering with the King  and the generals that night to plan the next step in the battle.  Those hours were his own, and  he would spend them as he needed to give himself the strength to go forth wherever fate would  next take him.  He turned away from the Elves and made for an ancient trail that led to a place  private to his soul.  Eomer had sought refreshment there since he was a child, and he looked to  it once more to restore his soul to peace.

His horse found the way by memory, a shake of his mane and a whicker making plain the horse  was as relieved as the man to be taking leave of the thick stench of blood and pitch and burnt  flesh for a little while.  An hour or so passed as they walked through the trees then through the  hills until they found themselves following a well-known stream through a well-loved canyon.   The smell of water caused the horse's head to come up, and Eomer smiled without effort for  the first time that day.

Trotting aslant up the hillside, Eomer heard a noise that was out of place and brought his  horse to a halt.  Staring up at the falls he saw a glimmer through the sheet of water, and  cautiously urged his steed closer.  When he could see clearly, he stilled and stared.

There was a man bathing beneath the falls, a creature of dream perhaps, as no man Eomer  had ever beheld was so finely made.  Hair the color of moonbeams flowed over strong shoulders  and down a long back, and the water sliding down the elegant limbs appeared as snow melting  in the sun, the skin was so pale.  A moment's watching informed Eomer that the man was in  fact an Elf, and instinctively wishing to prolong the vision, Eomer urged his horse with hand and  knee to retreat into the trees, not making a sound.

Here was beauty as it should be, not defiled by death but abundant with life.  The Elf tipped  his head back, allowing the water to run over his face, streams parting his hair and painting  it over his shoulders nearly to his waist.  Through the thin wash of water the planes of the Elf's  face were blurred but recognizable, and Eomer wondered how Aragorn's friend Legolas  could have found this secret place.   
Even as the thought occurred to him Eomer scoffed silently.  If anyone could find this haven,  it would be the Elf.  Had the others not been constrained by the need to retrieve their dead,  they might all have ended up at this place, as soothing as it was to the soul.  Eomer felt a  wholly selfish gratitude that Legolas was not one of the Archer corps, and had remained  at Helm's Deep, for if he had not, then Eomer would never have seen such beauty for himself.

As Legolas stepped from the water to the side of the rocks he turned and bowed his head  toward the falls.  Although he spoke softly, his voice carried clearly, and Eomer heard him  say, "May the sound of falling water bring us sleep and the forgetfulness of grief."  His words  carried the ritual intonation of a prayer.

Legolas then turned and climbed up to the meadow.  As Eomer watched he found himself  riveted to the sight, and his thoughts came near to being a prayer of thanks.  If the Elf had  been a welcome sight when obscured by water, once the impediment was removed the  sight of him was wondrous indeed.  He seated himself in the soft grass and lifted his face  to the sun, his eyes falling closed as his hands rose to braid his hair.  Slowly, his voice drifting with the breeze as if in harmony with the wind itself, Legolas began to sing.

The words were incomprehensible to Eomer, but the melody was compelling.  It brought  tears to eyes that had not allowed such expression since he was a babe.  Eomer  dismounted silently and crept forward, drawn by the sweet mourning song of the Elf.

"Si man i yulma nin enquantuva? An si Tintalle Varda Oilosseo Ve fanyar maryat Elentari ortane, Ar liye tier undalave lumbule..."*

A breath of silence hovered on the air as the song came to an end, then Legolas  murmured, "Hiro îth ab 'wanath," a phrase familiar to Eomer, as the archers had whispered  it over the bodies on the battlefield, both of their kin as they gathered them up and of the  Orc as the Elves turned away from the burning pyres.  He'd asked Aragorn at the time  what it meant, and pretended not to see the tears on the King of Gondor's lashes as the  man said quietly, "May they find peace after death."

Eomer stay silent, mesmerized by the Elf's song, his beauty in the sunlight, the air of peace  surrounding him; from his first sight of Legolas he had been unwillingly impressed by the Elf's  courage and loyalty.  When Legolas mounted Hasufel Eomer had been impressed again by  the immediate rapport between horse and rider, the manner of control the Elf had taken  disdaining the use of bridle and rein.  From all he had heard of the battle, Legolas had made  an impressive showing, further increasing his worth in Eomer's estimation.  To have such  courage and spirit encased in such beauty was truly a gift, and Eomer appreciated it, if  only from afar.

Legolas now sat in the sunshine, the breeze playing with his hair, staring down at the valley  below.  Eomer wondered what the far-sighted Elf might see that could fascinate him so  completely.  As a consequence he was badly startled when, without turning to face him,  Legolas called out, "Join me or go, but cease spying.  Your eyes are nigh to burning holes  in my back."

The water drove gently against his skin as if to pound away all hint of the days  on the hunt since the Fellowship sundered, crowned by the slaughter at Helm's Deep.  Legolas  stood beneath the cleansing spray for a long time, lost in the rolling thunder of the splash  upon the rocks, until the draw of the sun beyond the rocky platform was too strong to resist.

He felt the Man's eyes upon him the moment he left the shelter of the water.

There was no hostility, only curiosity and a faint hunger he felt pull at him from the shadows  beneath the trees.  It was one of the Horseman, for Legolas could hear the horse as well, at  ease in its rest.  Sensing no threat, the Elf ignored his watcher for the moment and continued  on his way up the granite wall face to the meadow beyond.  The grass moved beneath his  feet, rough and homely, warmed from the sun.  Once away from the rolling timpani of the  waterfall he could hear the wind again, whistling as it passed through the leaves of grass,  a flat round sound very different from its whisper in the trees.

Sinking down atop an inviting hassock, Legolas cast his gaze on the valley below.  He was  high above and far beyond the immediate sight of the smoke rising from the corpses at Helm's  Deep; all that met his eye were the shifting grasslands, billowing rhythmically with the passage  of the wind.  Above in the pellucid sky wheeled birds, their cries a distant echo to the keening  of the women at the battleground, grief lost in that distance.  Cloud-shapes drifted by,  obscuring the land from the sun before continuing on their way, the greens and browns of the  grasses shifting in the striations of light and shadow like waves cresting and falling in the far  ocean.

The waves of wind-blown grass and the high-circling birds recalled a faint memory, stories  heard as a child, wakening again in Legolas the desire to one day stand and watch the sea.   Though he knew it not, that day would come years hence, with his chosen beside him; until it  did, he would live each moment as it came and take what comfort might be wrought from it.   With that decision, bred in his spirit as it was, came the words to his lips to sing the honored  dead on their way, and release this day's suffering to the wind.

More darkness would come, and he would bear it as he must.  Until then he would sing the  hymns of praise and remembrance.  Staring out over the valley, he paid no heed to the Man  watching him as he embraced the healing rays of the sun and sang a final farewell to those  of his people who would never seek the Havens.

Some time passed, long enough for the last moisture to dry from his skin and hair, braids  forming quickly under his fingers; long enough for the Lady's song to be sung for her fallen  champions; long enough for the eyes feasting upon him to become an itch to be scratched.   Legolas dropped his hands to his thighs and sighed softly, then called over his shoulder,  "Join me or go, but cease spying.  Your eyes are nigh to burning holes in my back."

He had long since realized, as he was singing, that he knew the scent and sound of his watcher,  though he'd had little contact with the Man.  The Marshal was a man of ill temper and stout heart,  with a horseman's thighs and a wild spirit, who must surely be suffering to have ended his exile only to find his people in the midst of such carnage.  Legolas smiled as he heard the deliberately  heavy tramp of footsteps come up behind him.  If Eomer was willing, Legolas knew of one certain  way to ease their minds from death.

As spirit and body were entwined, so that which refreshed the body could be used to refresh the  spirit, should other methods fail.

The words rocked Eomer back on his heels.  It would appear the keen hearing  and uncanny abilities of Elves were more than old tales used to entertain children.  As his  surprise faded a rush of anger took its place.  Spying, indeed; it sounded as if he was a shy  boy on the edges of a campfire, afraid to come into the light.

He glanced over his shoulder at his horse, who at that moment snorted in apparent agreement,  or perhaps mirth at Eomer being caught out as if he was that feckless child.  As abruptly as it  had shown, his anger faded, resolve growing in its stead.  This was his place; his sanctuary;  his retreat.  No Elf, no matter how beautiful nor how distracting, would take that from him when  he most needed it.  The battles he'd seen, the death he'd brought, and both the losses to and  the grievous injuries done the men he'd led for so long demanded he take his rest where he  could find it.

Mayhap the diversion Legolas promised would be more help than hindrance after all.

Bidding his horse make free of the lush grass, Eomer doffed his helmet and strode out into  the sunlight.  The Elf's curious light eyes followed his movement, but no expression could be  seen gracing the fine-drawn features.  Nodding once to greet his uninvited company, Eomer  stripped off the rest of his clothing and lay it carefully down next to his weapons.  Legolas  appeared disinterested in his actions as the Man lay the last of his adornments aside and  strode off to indulge in his own much-needed ablutions.

The prickle along his skin must be only the chill of the mist rising from the waterfall and the  heat of the sunlight, not the weight of a stare.  For when Eomer glanced over one last time  before granite impeded his view, the Elf was once more staring off unblinking down along  the valley.

Splashing beneath the water, colder than expected, Eomer made short but efficient work of  his bath.  Diving to the bottom of the pool, he rinsed the last of the blood and sweat from his  skin, surfacing and wading to the rocky side,  wringing out his hair and swiping the water from  his beard as he scaled the incline to return to the meadow.  He felt refreshed but chilled from  his immersion, and carefully scouting a seat far enough from Legolas so as to respect the  Elf's privacy but not far enough away to signify hostility, he closed his eyes, raised his face  to the sun, and soaked in the silence.

Peace, unfortunately, was harder come by than he'd hoped.  Too soon he grew restless,  his muscles jumping under his skin as he found himself bidden by his own impatient nature  to move.  Opening his eyes again, he sighed, then stilled in sudden alarm.

Legolas had moved whilst Eomer's eyes were closed.  Eomer had not sensed it, for the  Elf moved more stealthily than shadow over light.  Now kneeling within arm's reach,  Legolas watched calmly as Eomer adjusted to his presence.  Fascination lent courage  to fingers without permission of thought, and Eomer's hand reached out to touch the  spun-silk locks trailing down over Legolas' arm.

A fine brow arched.  Eomer realized that the movement came from himself and stayed  his hand yet again.  The corner of Legolas' mouth moved up of a sudden, forming a  half-grin that invited the Man to continue his unadvised movement.  When Eomer found  himself unable to do so, the grin spread to encompass the generous mouth, and a long- fingered hand enfolded his own.  Strength beneath unexpectedly soft skin, decorated with  an archer's calluses, singed Eomer's hand, but it was nothing to the heat from the soft kiss  the Elf then laid against his palm.

Nor the inferno that raged when Legolas followed the kiss with the smallest of bites to the  heel of Eomer's hand.  The sting flew faster than an arrow from his hand to his heart to his  groin, and he groaned, incapable of stifling it.  Legolas' grin developed a wicked edge.

Seduced by the spark in those bright light eyes and the mischief in a face both ageless  and timeless, Eomer raised his free hand and ran it along the fine-grained skin of Legolas'  shoulder, sliding it beneath the sun-dried hair and pushing the shining mass back until it no  longer obscured Eomer's view of Legolas' body.  From the curve of oddly beardless cheek  to the intricate upsweep of ear, down the long line of throat where the hard pulse beat to the  hairless expanse of chest, the Elf was unlike any man Eomer had ever lain with, yet  impossible to dismiss as womanly in any way.  He was truly unearthly in Eomer's eyes,  and all the more desired for it.

Years later, as Eomer looked upon his wife's face, he would see the echo of that bloodline,  and silently rejoice in the otherness taken as his own.

For the moment, though, there was only Legolas, and the sweet smell of grass, and the  sunlight dancing on his skin.  Leaning forward, taking the invitation inherent in Legolas'  smiling acceptance of his caress, Eomer placed a gentle kiss below one pointed ear,  inhaling deeply of the spice and starlight that was the scent of the Elf.  Beneath his lips,  he felt the muscles move as Legolas swallowed, then a thrumming began beneath his  tongue as Legolas hummed contentedly.

Firm hands drifted over him, then settled against his hips and turned him with an ease  that was at once both unexpected and arousing.  Legolas slid one long leg between  Eomer's thighs and leaned down to capture his mouth in a kiss, his hair falling down to  block the view of the world from Eomer's eyes in such a way that it seemed nothing  existed but Legolas' mouth, the weight of Legolas' body against him, and the heat  consuming them both.

 

There was less urgency than comfort in the touch of hand to body, mouth to mouth,  legs twined together, and Legolas absorbed the warmth of contact as contentedly as his skin  had earlier absorbed the warmth of the sun.  With their embrace came sensations foreign to him,  regardless that in the future this Man would seem smooth to the touch, in contrast to the one who  would eventually hold Legolas' heart. The burn of beard against his cheek, the coarse thickness of the hair through which his fingers  twined, the unaccustomed bulk of the thighs he straddled combined to take Legolas completely  out of the preoccupation with despair that had been dragging at his spirit.  Eomer tasted of salt  and sunlight, leather and steel, his mouth firm and wide beneath Legolas', his limbs corded with  muscle, not sleek to the touch

His very differences, Man from Elf, made him an endlessly interesting discovery, and Legolas  took his time, lingering over his explorations, enjoying it.  Fingers stroked down the curve of  stomach, the cradle of pelvis, the cleft of buttock until the bunched muscles beneath the hair- roughened skin quivered beyond Eomer's control.  Only when broken sighs and words strangled  in his throat matched the undulation of Eomer's body beneath him did Legolas at last show  mercy in the giving of pleasure.  Eomer arched and shuddered, fists clenching in Legolas'  hair as he spent into Legolas' hands, a cry not unlike one of the far-off gulls breaking on his lips

Holding him in the bend of one arm, the other soothing the trembling body as one would an  exhausted horse, Legolas watched as Eomer regained his senses.  Only when eyes the  dark of midnight were once again fully trained on him did Legolas move, shifting the strong  thighs apart and cradling the still-clenching buttocks in his hands.  He worshipped Eomer's  body with skill and patience, matching his movements to the hints given by Eomer's reactions;  the tension bracketing his mouth with fine lines caused Legolas to slow, thrust, slow and  thrust again until the lines disappeared and the mouth opened in an affirmative sigh.  Then  speed increased with force, and toleration became acceptance became arousal, until the hardness meeting Legolas' belly with every deep thrust confirmed their shared pleasure

Hands slid the length of Legolas' arms to wind round his neck, pulling him down into a kiss  that was both fierce and breathless.  Brought thus flush against Eomer's body, Legolas  arched his back and pushed his hips forward, burying himself as far as he could reach  before clenching his own arms around Eomer's back and giving himself to his completion.   The movement alone was enough to bring Eomer to an end again; sensitive as his flesh  was from previous handling, the force of Legolas crushing against him and the press of  movement within him were too much.

They lay thus entwined together for some time, exchanging soft kisses and gentle caresses,  until the natural course of movement separated them.  Even then they lay close; Legolas  combed his fingers through Eomer's beard, taming the wild curls disarrayed by their kisses,  as Eomer brushed back the long fine strands of silky hair from Legolas' face.  No words were  spoken, no promises given, for there were none to be made; this was a time out of time, and  when it was over it would be done.  Both knew it.  Neither felt the need to say the words.

When their breath moved freely again and the blood beneath their skin heated, they lay together  once more, as easily as the first time, and when they were sated, they stayed, Eomer with his  head resting against Legolas' thigh, staring out over the valley, watching the waves of grass blow.  Legolas amused himself weaving warrior's braids and lovelocks in Eomer's thick hair.  Eomer  only stopped him when he reached for the wild flowers and made as if to weave them in as well.

"While I'll gladly wear your Elven lovelocks, Legolas, a crown of posies would be more than my  dignity could bear," he protested.  Legolas laughed agreement, and Eomer feigned indignation  that the Elf would not leap to defend Eomer's manhood.

"You are more than capable of mounting such a defense for yourself," Legolas teased.  "So  you've proven this past hour, even if it was as mount, not as rider!"

Eomer rose immediately to the challenge.  Legolas grinned as the Man reached up and pulled  him down into a rough embrace.

"Shall we put that to the test, then, and have me prove my ability beyond doubt?"

Once more they found themselves in disarray in the long grass.  In the laughter and the sighs,  there was no room for grief, and no echo of sadness.

Late that night the horsemen rode out from the Deep.  Gandalf was a beacon  beside Legolas, Aragorn starlight next to him, and the Rohirrim in steady formation behind  them.  Near to his right Legolas could feel Eomer's presence, though he gave no sign of his  knowledge.  Their moment was past; the next step on the long dark path before them led to  Isengard, uncertain times, doubtless pain and further loss.  Still in that moment Legolas found  his spirit lightened, and he was thankful for that measure of peace shared before they rode  once more to face death.

 End notes:

* From The Fellowship of the Ring.  Song sung by Galadriel as the Fellowship were heading  out.  Translated from the Quenyan: "Who now shall refill the cup for me? For now the Kindler, Varda, Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands  like clouds, and all paths are drowned deep in shadow..."  Unfortunately, I couldn't get the  formatting to work so the accent marks don't show.  If the reader would like to see the passage  correctly written, the complete song is near the end of the "Farewell to Lorien" chapter of  Fellowship.

The second quote, "Hiro îth ab 'wanath," is the Sindarin blessing Legolas says in the Two Towers movie at the pyre of the Orcs.  Thanks to MG!


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